CRAPocalypse Now
Legal Disclaimer: This is an entirely fictional short story.
IllusionLand
They called it the Council for Recognized Authoritative Propaganda (CRAP), a monstrous bureaucracy skulking behind the graffiti-stained walls of an abandoned theme park called IllusionLand—where the rides told an allegory of state-sanctioned deceit.
Among the rusting attractions stood the “Carousel of Consensus”, with its chipped horses bearing nametags like Trust and Compliance. Nearby loomed the House of Mirrors (and Lies), whose broken reflective panels still splintered reality into a thousand warped truths. Robotic carnival barkers in dusty uniforms chirped in glitchy monotones: “We are here for your protection!”, “Safe and Effective!” and “Trust The Science!”. They looped endlessly, but no one was listening anymore.
The dank boardroom in the basement of the House of Mirrors smelled faintly of candy floss and stagnant regret. CRAP’s top brass gathered around a dusty table bearing CIA logos—recycled from the Mockingbird™ operation that once furnished them near-limitless media influence. News anchors, nightly pundits, entire cable networks: all co-opted without so much as a whimper. With this gilded media machine, CRAP had been so certain it could manufacture “consensus” just like theme park cotton candy—sugary, spun fast, dissolving any attempt at deeper thought.
The Cabal’s Minions
Within the ranks of CRAP slithered a rogues’ gallery of authoritarian misfits, each performing some twisted pantomime of public service. There was Scary Poppins: once offered her own Ministry of Truth, now relegated to viral-laughingstock status after her theatrically awkward show tunes about “policing misinformation.” She stalked the empty halls of IllusionLand, humming paranoid jingles about “public safety,” ironically generating a relentless #1 meme mocking her feigned seriousness.
Then there was her mentor, Bobblehead Azimov: a flighty cocaine-fuelled figure with a permanent grin—like a plastic bobblehead left too close to a furnace. She had fled Canada under a dark cloud of a scandal involving her entanglement with Baron Klaus von Ze Bugs (rumour said she’d been funnelling Food Bank rations into his private insect-larva farm snack initiative). She had almost perfected the art of scapegoating the peasants whenever the heat was on. Whenever she opened her mouth, you could practically hear the squeak of plastic as her head wobbled to keep up with her own lies.
And completing the trio of public-facing minions of the global cabal was Dame “Psycho Nanny” Horseface: an unholy antipodean blend of WEF groupie and surveillance-state nanny, delivering CRAP’s doctrine with the social grace of a steel-toed boot. Her hideous “for the greater good” smile barely masked her tyrannical streak as she dutifully forced entire populations to “check in” with digital passes and toxic jabs just to buy groceries, insisting they accept her word as “the Truth.” She was well-known for whacking a Build Back Better pamphlet at the peasants as if disciplining naughty children for wanting to breathe freely. After fleeing her homeland, she hid at IllusionLand HQ, where she was slowly transmuting into her mentor, Opus Dei Blair—who, in turn, was transmuting into a real vampire after admiring them for so long.
They were the new architects of truth—or at least, so they believed. By the end of the Great Reset Scamdemic, most everyone else saw them for what they truly were: a gaggle of overpaid carnival barkers peddling stale lies dressed up as visionary leaders. Their grand Build Back Better narratives crumbled faster than their rigged metrics, leaving them exposed as little more than desperate propagandists clinging to the illusion of righteous authority.
Gathering Storm
No one dared crack jokes in CRAP’s executive meetings anymore. Not in the IllusionLand Ballroom—once decked out for eerie “children’s parties”, now reeking of mould, dust, and ill omen. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed like dying flies, flickering madly on battered charts projecting CRAP’s dwindling hold on the populace.
The meltdown was underway. The Mockingbird™-operated TV segments haemorrhaged viewers, replaced by numerous garage-based podcast hosts who eagerly dissected CRAP’s puppet show for their tens of millions of followers.
The dreaded phrase “Peak Censorship” echoed through the labyrinthine tunnels and hallways—like a funeral dirge for an entire regime’s stranglehold on reality.
In a desperate briefing, Dr. Karen Killjoy, MD MPH LLC LOL WHO BS, head of CRAP’s in-house think tank and “Nudge Scientist”, brandished a slide comparing CRAP’s propaganda engagement to dancing Russian cat memes.
“They’d rather share cat GIFs,” she moaned, voice dripping with humiliation.
“We spent billions on fear campaigns—and lost to a meme!”
A sleek tech consultant fiddled with his diamond-studded cufflinks. “Gen Z is a lost cause,” he muttered. “They crave free-speech streams, worship that rocket-fetish guy Musk—like groupies at a rock concert. And now the ZuckBot has betrayed us, too. This is apocalyptic. ”
Seated at the head of the table, Baron von de Leyden presided like an ageing vampire. She had just returned from a clandestine sex change surgery. She had hoped a change in external physical identity would bury a fraudulent PhD scandal and cultivate an aura of untouchable mystique; however, although the externals looked different, weird, and painful, the DNA on the inside would always reveal the truth, despite all the modRNA pumping through her clotted veins. Her perpetual sneer made Dr. Killjoy’s meltdown look downright wholesome.
“Musk,” she spat. “That so-called champion of free speech. If he keeps letting people have uncensored opinions, how will we keep them… pliable?”
A PR strategist dropped her latte in the corner, splattering hot liquid across the floor.
“Free speech?” she whispered, aghast. “That’s so… pre-2015.”
The Enemy Emerges
Meanwhile, miles away, a teenager in pizza-stained pyjamas was busy undermining CRAP’s narrative from the comfort of his little bedroom via TikTok. Using Lego figurines and a sarcastic quip about “Magic Porridge Pot Money Printing,” he explained how fiat illusions and inflation robbed the people blind. “Our money’s so fake, it might as well be carnival tokens,” he joked. The insight cut deeper than any telepromptered news brief would ever do.
Meanwhile, a goat farmer living strategically in rural nowhere calmly streamed foreign-policy monologues while milking livestock:
“Proxy wars? These gangsters push profit-driven puppet wars, like corporate bar fights; we pay the tab in taxes, and plebs around the world pay in spilt blood.”
The goats bleated in agreement; the farmer’s authenticity outshone every forced corporate anchor’s smile. His popularity soared so high that courts started throwing out cases against him—like the lawsuits by woke midwitocrats of the bloated Psycho Nanny State who attempted to ban his natural raw unpasteurized milk. A swarm of online supporters cheered him on, turning him into a folk hero who outperformed CRAP’s multi-billion-dollar spin machine with ease.
Elsewhere, a plain-speaking YouTuber and conspiracy investigator unmasked the worst excesses of the military-industrial complex in a self-produced docu-series, labelling the CRAP organization “War, Inc. With Censorship Side Hustle.” Comments poured in, drowning out CRAP’s carefully choreographed illusions.
Worse yet, Elon Musk teased a new project called “Freebird AI,” cryptically promising an even freer speech environment. CRAP executives and PR lackeys seethed, powerless against an onslaught of cat memes, candid streams, and homemade videos. Their old smears—accusing him of having a “rocket fetish”—no longer landed. Even the memory of his flamethrower stunt was met with shrugs from a public that craved authenticity over empty and even evil paternalism.
Within the corroded tunnels of IllusionLand, Scary Poppins raged at a remix of her chanting “a spoonful of control”, which had gone viral—its mocking repetition an earworm symbolizing the emptiness of CRAP’s paternalistic scolding. Psycho Nanny Horseface tried to retrofit WEF “we-know-better” paternalism into something less tyrannical-sounding, failing miserably. And Bobblehead Azimov paced, high on cocaine, shrieking about “ungrateful plebs” who refused to kneel before the philanthropic overlords and the merits of de-banking and fascism.
“Russian bots, Russian cats—it’s infiltration!” she thundered to exhausted execs. “Musk is a mad scientist with a rocket fetish. He even had that flamethrower once—he’s practically a Bond villain!”
A lone intern dared to float a timid idea:
“M-maybe we should engage them in, you know, open debate?”
The Chairman’s venomous sneer cut her down.
“Debate? My dear, we have the nuclear option—algorithmic shadowbans. One press of a button, and they vanish.”
Operation TruthShield
In a frantic bid to squash dissent, CRAP launched Operation TruthShield, with the hashtag #WeAreTruth:
Censor any voices deemed “dangerously off-brand” with extreme prejudice.
Amplify corporate-friendly influencer clones—faces bright, souls absent.
Profit from the confusion since disoriented populations are easier to fleece—and the Magic Porridge Pot demands fresh illusions to keep the digital presses churning.
It worked for about five minutes. Sure, some dissenting channels vanished—shadowbanned into oblivion and replaced by a plague of Gates and Soros-funded mercenary fact-checkers that smothered every rebellious Tweet with disclaimers. But the blowback was nuclear. A tsunami of memes, videos, and underground streams rendered CRAP’s illusions laughable. Within hours, #NarrativeCrisis trended globally. Goat-farmer memes soared. The once-cocky fact-checkers were drowned out by cat-GIF warfare.
In desperation, CRAP enlisted a famous actor for a tear-soaked PSA, not realizing that the peasants no longer worshipped “the Stars” of Hollywood:
“This is for democracy. We must trust CRAP!”
An off-camera hot mic captured the star cackling:
“I’m making bank gaslighting these rubes!”
But if there was anyone still listening, they knew this already. #TrustThis erupted across social media, eviscerating CRAP’s saccharine appeals.
Even Zuckerberg—robot snake-like opportunist that he was—was pivoting to “freer speech” if it juiced his platform metrics. CRAP’s top brass branded him a traitorous whelp, spitting that he “never belonged in the real big boys’ club anyway.”
Then, the ultimate humiliation arrived: a TikTok mash-up featuring the goat farmer, the pizza-stained teen, the conspiracy investigator’s hot mic commentary, and a cameo from a tinfoil-hatted cat. It was so side-splittingly brutal that watchers laughed themselves hoarse, shredding CRAP’s facade with unstoppable, memetic force.
The Descent
IllusionLand itself reflected CRAP’s collapse with chilling synchronicity. Rides malfunctioned en masse, belching sparks and droning mechanical wails. Broken animatronic clowns, once designed for forced cheer, seemed to sneer at passersby in a show of cosmic irony. Protesters gathered outside chanting, “Let Us Meme!” and “We Think For Ourselves!” The stench of tear gas mixed with rancid cotton candy drippings in the acrid air. Even the ageing security guards, frantically re-painting the peeling “Everything Is Fine” signs, couldn’t suppress the tide of outrage.
The Chairman stared at her phone in slack-jawed horror in a windowless war room beneath the ancient cotton candy machine. Post after post revealed “nobodies” toppling CRAP’s carefully manicured illusions.
“We underestimated them,” she whispered, voice trembling with dread.
The timid intern asked:
“Who exactly is ‘them,’ sir?”
Her gaze was hollow—almost like a man who’d seen his empire’s foundation turn to quicksand.
“Everyone. The Romanians, the Germans, the goat farmers, the pyjama teens… They’re not playing our game. They see us for what we are, and we kept telling them to shut up—as if they wouldn’t notice.”
Just then, her phone buzzed with an incoming text: Another scowling Russian cat meme—this one in a tin-foil beret, speech bubble reading:
“CRAP said, ‘Trust Us’? Hard pass!”
It looped over and over, a mocking anthem to the Council’s impending doom.
Epilogue
A few establishment historians—still on the payroll of Soros and the global bankster mafia—would later call CRAP’s downfall a tragedy, lamenting the “demise of authoritative leadership.” Meanwhile, the goat farmer—still calmly milking goats—shrugged and declared it inevitable. The pyjama-clad teen smirked at his phone, preparing his next Lego-based exposé on central bank digital currencies, while his duct-taped webcam blinked cheerfully.
IllusionLand’s final days saw the Council for Recognized Authoritative Propaganda wither under the weight of its own hubris. Their rotting rides, once designed to terrify and cajole people into a single narrative, became an ironic tourist trap where visitors snapped selfies in front of the rusted Carousel of Consensus. CRAP’s last panicked rebrand attempts—“CRAP 2.0,” “New CRAP,” “CRAP-Lite”—were instantly torpedoed by memes and relentless cat videos.
In the end, CRAP was undone by an ancient human impulse: the simple desire to think for oneself and share that spark—sometimes with nothing more than a home-brewed broadcast, a Substack article, or a comedic quip.
The CRAPsters’ final strongholds—rotting theme parks and hollow studio sets—were overshadowed by authentic voices built on curiosity, laughter, and a refusal to be spoon-fed illusions. The more CRAP tried to terrorize humanity into a single narrative, the more the memes marched forth, brandishing biting humour as their greatest sword. And so, the carnival of propaganda came to an end. For now.
If you managed to wade through this entire CRAPapocalypse and still have your wits intact, consider supporting my Substack. Not only will you be ensuring more irreverent exposés of evil bureaucratic buffoonery, but you’ll also help me achieve a personal life goal: acquiring some milking goats, sheep, or any creature where pasteurization will become an issue. Milking and drinking that stuff while livestreaming about the hideous ghouls who want to turn our world into one big prison would be so delicious.
And, a very big thank you to the 40+ people who already support my journey into madness.
Your mind amazes me.